The Plum Orchid

Menu

Poetry in Motion

My God, what a posterior! She’s buying cigarettes. Wouldn’t have guessed that, but in this country it should come as no surprise. Drops ’em in her bag together with that organic raw food crap. Quite the combo – an antioxidant coconut water for her health, a mentholated Marlboro for her smoking pleasure. Not Gitanes or Gauloises, mind you, they don’t smoke the classics here anymore, as if that would concern me. But just look at that hinterland. My God! Wonders of the world.

Must this check-out line be so incredibly slow. No, Madame it’s not a CB card. What difference does it make? Didn’t get a good look at her face. The scarf. Can only imagine . . . it matters not . . . those nates, unbelievable. Yes I have cash, Madame.Merci bien and all that. Now what direction did she take? People, out of my way! Excusez-moi, excusez-moi. There – Voilà!

Okay. She’s heading up Saint-Michel towards the river which seems only slightly out of my way. Such powerful strides. There’s confidence and determination there. At least somebody knows where they’re going. An ambulatory objet d’art she is. You’ll have a hard time finding perfection like that in any museum, believe me.

Who was the genius who wrote that song? What about all those idiots lining up like cattle to see the ‘enigmatic’ Miss Lisa Gherardin yesterday? Come all the way from Spokane and Guangzhou, wait in line for hours for their allotted ten seconds, and then find out security won’t let ’em take selfies. So upsetting. So unfair. Why hasn’t the stupid Louvre recruited some aspiring young actress who can nail that smile, pose for the selfies, and sign autographs for the groupies? “Your name Monsieur? Do you spell that J-e-r-r-y?”

Thanks for gaping at me, Jerry. Love Always, Mona

That will, of course, cost you five or six Euros. How come I keep getting great ideas like that?

She is turning right on Saint-Germain and I’m almost close enough to read the label on her jeans. No trivial task to squeeze into those, trust me. This is turning into quite a detour, but I’ve got an hour before meeting up with Phil at the Beaubourg. Got to pick up my pace a little, though. Brisk walker this one. Brisk – yes, yet there is such harmony and such grace in every step she takes. Some people get off on enigmatic smiles – be my guest – but this callipygian is the pudding proof for Intelligent Design if there ever was one.

I’ve got some bad news for you, Pankertoff. A new directive just came in. It’s gonna be a whole new ball game, buddy.

What are you talking about, Knillo?

Total f-ing disaster, Pankertoff. Our Dimorphism Department is getting stabbed in the back.

Stop beating about the clouds, Knillo. Tell me what this is all about.

She’s going to make them bipedal, Pankertoff. She’s gonna make them stand up and balance on just their two f-ing feet.

Who?

The hominids. Who in the f– did you think I was talking about?

That’s absurd.

Absurd or not. Quadrupedal is out and bipedal is in. It’s as simple as that. It’s the new normal.

The quadrupedal hominidae are my masterpiece, Knillo. The crowning achievement of my career. Just look at the awards I’ve won. She’s a nincompoop. She knows nothing about dimorphism. She can’t just destroy my work like that.

She’s f-ing God, Pankertoff. She can do whatever the f– she wants.

And just how, may I ask, will these two-legged freaks make whoopee, Knillo?

I guess they’ll have to figure that out for themselves.

Even more ridiculous, and what’s more, bipeds can’t run.

Apparently running will just be a recreational activity, Pankertoff. And they will be able to throw things and pick stuff out of trees.

Oh yeah, well how easy is it going to be to eat grass standing up?

They’re not going to eat the f-ing grass, Pankertoff. They’re going to eat other quadrupeds.

Eeew!

Yeah, that’s what I said.

Knillo, is there anything more beautiful in creation than the blooming blood-red venous vulva of the Nakalipithecus Nakayamai? Is there anything more exhilarating than two quadrupeds in the glorious throes of copulation? Where is the sexual attraction in a flat-assed bipedal buttock. Damn God and her newfangled notions, I say.

Talk about rhythm. Obviously a fabulous dancer. With a badonkadonk like that she would have to be – given the right music, of course. Just imagine her at the milongo on four inch spikes . . . Now, as a card-carrying feminist I can’t ask that women wear high heels 24/7. Even if we all appreciate the protrusion and postural boost therein provided, scientists in Switzerland and three other countries have proven beyond doubt that the extended use of high heels can lead to back pain and osteoarthritis, so it’s up to you girls, but, nevertheless, thank you for your sacrifice. Speaking of the tango, Marcia Moretto died just a few blocks from here. She was only thirtytwo. Argentinean by birth. Caporal Cancer. Tragic.

I love every movement
There’s nothing I would change
She doesn’t need improvement
She’s much too nice to rearrange

Anyway, my dancer is not wearing high heels. She’s wearing what-do-they-call-them – pumps? And soooo generous of her to share that sauntering, bountiful booty with all the world her stage. No way to show your appreciation, though – stop me if you’ve heard this before – but you just can’t walk up and say, Mademoiselle, you have a world-class tush. Gotta keep those unspeakable thoughts to yourself. Just relax and enjoy the show. Remember, that’s what civilization is all about.

Shake your money maker
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

Hmmm, we’re crossing the street. She’s not so bothered about the red light. Does a nice little quebrada to avoid a taxi – the taxi that nearly runs me over. ‘Hé regarde où tu vas connard!’ shouts the driver. ‘Same to you double up, buddy!’ She doesn’t even turn around and I could have gotten killed. Must be more careful.

Unidentified Voyeur Run Over By Paris Taxi Driver While Chasing Tail On Saint-Germain Blvd

Oops, my mind is wandering. Need to focus on the task at hand. What do they call that scarf she’s wearing? Not a Niqab. Hijab? Can never remember which is which. Not a Burka anyway.

We’re on Saint-Séverin alongside the back of the church. This narrow street is mostly empty of people, basically just her and me which is starting to feel a little edgy. What if she, god forbid, turns around and confronts me? What if she calls over a cop?

Qu’est-ce que t’as, tu veux ma photo?

No Miss, Sorry, I was just admiring your pumps. Where did you buy them? I’d like to get some for my wife.

Officer, the charge is absurd . . . there’s been a terrible mistake. If you could kindly point me in the direction of the Champs-Élysées I’ll be on my way.

Poetry in motion
See her gentle sway
A wave out on the ocean
Could never move that way
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

Typhoon-force winds hurl mountainous swells at the hapless steamer’s broadsides, sending it pitching and rolling in every direction of the cosmos. Relentless torrents of angry foaming ocean roar out of the death-black entombed heavens, crashing down on the ship’s shivering decks, ripping away bowlines, belaying pins, lanyards, barnacle lanterns, and boutons, and reducing the starboard quarter to splinters and sprites.

Stoke up the boilers, Johnson. Aye-aye Captain. Full-speed-ahead for all she wrote, Johnson. Aye-aye Captain.

Below deck, in the burnt metal stench and putrid spark-lit smokiness of the engine room, gears laboriously grind and pistons tremble and screech with the fear of God, while deeper down in the hold, the frigid evil-eyed seawaters, having breached the rotting seams of the ship’s hull, are taunting the once courageous bilge pumps who, out of sheer exhaustion and corporate cost-cutting neglect have lost their appetite for battle and in defeat are whimpering and drooling like mortally wounded pigs.

This storm is right out of purgatory, Johnson. Aye-aye Captain. Keep those turbines pumping, Johnson. Aye-aye Captain. Did you lube the shaft lines yesterday? Aye-aye Captain. Oil the gaskets? Forgot the gaskets, Captain. Damn you Johnson, you worthless scum. Then prepare to meet your maker, man! Our fate rests in the hands of the Almighty.

We are crossing Saint-Jacques and continuing on the Rue Galande. Sooner or later I am going to have to give up la chasse. Call it a day. For all I know she is planning to walk halfway across the city.

Poetry in motion
All that I adore
No number-nine love potion
Could make me love her more
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

. . . or not. She turns left onto Rue Saint-Julien le Pauvre and then – well, what do you know, Shakespeare & Company, and she’s going in. Our safari is ending in a bookstore. My guidon, my perfect arrière, is disappearing into the realm of fiction. How appropriate. Of course this shop is not Sylvia Beach’s original Shakespeare & Co. This is not where JJ sketched out ‘Work in Progress’, or Hemingway broke Fitzgerald’s nose with a first edition of ‘Middlemarch’. ThatShakespeare & Co. is long gone, but this store has it’s own set of luminous ghosts: Lawrence Durrell, Anaïs Nin, Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Henry Miller. This is where they partied in Paris.

Maybe she’s a writer. A woman of many talents. Even today writers live here, you know. They sleep on cots between the books and some sleep on the floor. No, I’m not following her in. I’ve had my fill. My cup runneth over, so to speak, and I sing to myself What a Wonderful World.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

**** Soliloquy ****

king cannot get enough of my butt sniff-sniff all day long so tedious i mean you would think he’d know the lay of the land by now after all we’ve been living together for over two years sharing the same meals going on walks together pissing in the same places a girl can’t get a moment’s peace around that guy sniff-sniff just when you’re getting a good scratching from her ladyship or digging up something of interest in the backyard you feel those yucky cold nostrils prodding into your backside sniff-sniff goddamnit king not at all hygienic either who know’s where those nostrils have been sniff-sniff get a life king aarf